


A Good, Scientific Man

by DrownSoda



Category: The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: M/M, Poor poor alan, Second Person, an attempt to tell his story, uncover the mystery of his character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 22:23:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12198573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrownSoda/pseuds/DrownSoda
Summary: You are Alan Campbell.





	A Good, Scientific Man

It was at an event that you met him for the first time.

You were not usually in attendance at these events. Your peers considered you uptight and overly introverted, and perhaps they were right - but you always retorted with “And they're overly rich and overly drunk!”

But tonight, for reasons unknown even to yourself, you decided to make yourself seen.

Not overly so, mind. You made courteous, albeit uncomfortable, conversation with some of the older ladies, faces hidden behind their colourful fans and social standing hidden by their colourful words. The bustle of the party was a tad overwhelming, the flashes of velvet and polished wood, gold gilt and ivory marble, heady perfumes so distinct as to make you feel you were lost in a fog. Some of the more fashionable gentlemen have you a once over, their distaste for your sombre, practical clothing evident in their raised eyebrows and pursed lips. Younger ladies often smiled at you like you were a handsome stray dog or an adorable orphan child, in need of their sympathy, and you began to regret your attendance immensely.

Until you saw him.

He looked over at you from across the crowd of heads, and you were hit with sudden shame. He was the most exquisite specimen you had ever seen; the jewel-toned plumage and golden crests of every bird you had ever examined would lose all lustre next to him. Not merely in his fashion, dramatic yet delicate and perfectly flattering, but in his form and features. The light seemed to play off of his cheekbones, illuminating his finest features which were not in short supply - his large, dark blue eyes, his Grecian nose, his perfectly curved, plump, rosy lips. Part of you was glad you had dressed so plainly, for you would rather be a sparrow, bland but honest, than a pigeon parading around in a peacock’s feathers like the other men at the party would be beside this true bird of paradise. Flustered, you bowed your head.

When you looked up again, you had expected him to have moved on, crowd of adoring ladies and gentleman swarming around him like a tribe of ants transporting a hard won fruit. Yet he was still looking at you, moving towards you in fact, swatting away his fans with his slender, ring adorned fingers. You froze in place like a frightened deer, nervous but excited by his approach.

“I take it you do not attend these kinds of events much?” He looked you over before meeting your eyes, offering a wry smile.

You shook your head and cursed your sudden inability of to speak.

“My name is Dorian Gray. May I ask yours?”

***  
You sat in his living room, barely able to comprehend the sheer beauty that surrounded you. None of the crass clasps at fashion that had overrun the party (about a fortnight before) were visible here; every flower, frippery and furnishing combined to make an image of art. And there were many of each, freshly cut roses that were larger and more scarlet than you had ever seen almost sprouting from every surface, rich mixtures of embroidered tapestries that harkened to exotic lands and times gone by and plush dark velvet, soft to the touch and striking to the eye, polished mahogany furniture with intricate golden handles and trims and edgings. Your eyes drank in the beauty of the ivory piano keys, the ivory statue of a boy so delicately carved it seemed designed purely to break.

A real ivory boy stood before you, dressed in lighter colours this morning. He didn't look so delicate - age hadn't marred the perfect youth of his face, but it brought experiences which one could see weighing on a person, and you could see it in him. You didn't mind so much, though. Youth had never meant much to you.

The room was silent save the light sounds of breathing and you watched him intently as he fastened the small golden buttons of his light blue waistcoat. He watched you back, his expression indiscernible to you. You realised you'd been smiling a fool the entire time and in an attempt to avoid looking so earnest and eager you adopted a stern expression; unfortunately, it was so comical he erupted into laughter, bending over slightly from the force of his voice.

“We are a pair of fools, aren't we, Alan? Sitting in perfect silence like a pair of perfect strangers when we are two new friends in a room with a piano - which we both can play!”

You laughed too, and conceded.

“We really must play together, Alan.” He sidled over to the massive ebony structure, designed so lovingly it seemed to embody music itself rather than just serve as a vehicle to play it. He sat down at the Oriental-inspired embroidered stool, so unlike the typical brown leather affair, and he gestured for you to join him.

“I wish to hear you play alone, first,” he whispered in your ear. Heat rose through your body - his voice was breathy and deliciously erotic, oozing honey from his lips.

You took a deep breath, closed your eyes, and let the music begin. It seemed to glide out of your fingers, your light keystrokes contrasting the powerful passion of the music. You lost yourself in the sound, it's growling lows and soaring highs, and you would have forgotten your surroundings completely if not for the soft gasps Dorian gave out on occasion. It pleased you greatly to hear how much pleasure you were bringing him with your talents - each stroke of the ivory keys was like a stroke of his ivory body, and you imagined the sounds that he would make, as beautiful and concordant as the music notes. 

When you finished, you looked up to see him. His lips were open slightly, blue eyes hooded. He moved his hand on top of yours and stroked your fingers with a light touch, as though he was thanking them for their work. He leaned into you, breath warm against your ear.

“You really are brilliant, aren't you?”

***  
The smell of cigarettes provided an oddly refreshing respite from the strong, cloying perfume emanating from his clothing and hair, which was delightfully tousled in a way that conjured vivid images in your mind of how it had gotten in such a state. You were so close, too close, and you knew the boundaries of even a most intimate friendship had been crossed as you lay next to him on his bed, the dark silk of his bedsheets illuminated slightly by the soft amber glow of the candlebra.

He reached across to stroke your cheek, his fingers soft against your skin. Despite its implications, the action seemed so gentle and unassuming, so unlike the always wry, bold man you had come to know.

A glass bowl of the finest crystal sat on his bedside cabinet, filled with large, ripened strawberries placed there that morning by his manservant, as per his request. He dipped into the bowl and brought the largest, most scarlet delight, moving towards your lips. You sighed as he rubbed it over your lips, his hand stroking your clothed thigh just close enough to tease you painfully, and you opened your mouth slightly and enveloped the fruit within it, sucking on its sweetness. A soft whimper escaped him and he pushed his fingers in between your lips as well, and you ran your teeth down them lightly before biting hard into the fruit, letting its sugary juice drip down your face, and you were almost astonished at how shamelessly erotic you were allowing yourself to be.

“It's sweet, is it not? I want to taste the sweetness,” he murmured, his voice trailing off towards the end as he moved closer, ghosting his lips against yours.

Before you even knew it, you were kissing him back with more passion than you had believed you possessed. His lips were so plump and pink and sumptuous and you sucked them in with the ferocity of a rabid creature, unable to satiate yourself - he was sweeter than any fruit you could have tasted, and the low quiet whimpers he let escape were enrapturing to you, moreso than any symphony you could ever have heard.

Clothes were soon lost, and it was skin against skin, and you kissed the smooth pale skin of his skin thigh. He was so warm, so sensitive, so vocal, and you felt you could kiss him all over for all eternity and never grow tired of it. Indeed you felt no shame in kissing him, not even when you moved between the thighs and wrapped your mouth around him, looking him dead in the eye as you pleasured him. It felt as natural as anything God had intended for you. 

You did not have to use your mouth long to bring him to climax, and the sight was the most beautiful thing you had ever observed in nature or in art. Even in the dim candlelight you could see the soft blush of his cheeks, and his fingers clasped your skin with such quiet desperation as he thrust into you with small jerks of his hips, and the way he moaned your name in between his gasps could have made you finish without a single touch.

 

“How does it feel to be corrupted?” Dorian whispered, before wrapping his own lips around you, the hot wetness of his mouth sending a sharp hit of pleasure through you.

He repeated it after you thrust desperately into his tightness, pulling his mouth away with a pleasant pop, “How does it feel to be corrupted?”

But you were not listening.

***  
You had never seen such intense anger before - it wasn't an overly violent act, culminating in a few smashed vases, spilt wine and spilt tears, but the pure, unadulterated rage you felt emanating from him left you terrified.

How quickly the features that you had worshipped could fall from grace. The pretty mouth you'd seen so soft and sweet spoke such ugly words that it seemed to turn scarlet and sour, the blue eyes from which you'd felt such love and life turned icy and emotionless. That warm, ivory skin turned to pure cold marble and the roses of his cheeks seemed now gaudy and angry rather than charming and joyful.

But all of this was painfully shallow and you knew it. You appreciated, adored, ravished his beauty - but you knew how inessential it was. Without a pure soul to complement it, it was worthless to you, and you had seen this pure soul you came to love disintegrate in front of your eyes. You knew good people did bad things sometimes, such was human nature, but not like this, this manic, frantic anger over some tiny, forgettable dispute. 

The most painful part of all, for you, was to hear that voice - his sweet voice, the essence of music, that spoke clever wit and compliments in its delicate tone, twist and contort in violence. His voice haunted you the most - the way it moaned, decried, threatened, lamented your name. You simply could not bear it.

He had left without saying a word, but upon returning to your lodgings, you found a note accompanied by flowers. Purple hyacinth, stunning in their colour, the lighter edges fading perfectly into the bold, regal bright shade of purple that seemed at once lurid and delicate.

Of course, you forgave him.

***  
Every day you tried to forget him, though you knew it was hopeless. All you could do was focus on other subjects and try to block out the memories, even the pleasant ones - they were perhaps the most painful of all.

A new occupation for each sin he had lured you to commit, an hour of research for each lie he had spun you, a symphony for every time you had fallen in love with him in spite of it all. It would take an orchestra to drown out the sound of each time he had shattered china, shouted at you; you would have to discover the key to immortality to make yourself forget the apologies, the writhing under sheets, the pretty eyes and fast hands.

You knew it, and you were an intelligent man, a good, scientific man. You knew it, and yet you tried, tried, tried.

A letter arrived, requesting your presence.

You went.


End file.
